“Mr. Selwood!” she exclaimed imploringly. “You—I can’t. You open it, and—”
“And let him read it,” added Mr. Tertius.
Selwood, whose nerves had been strung to a high pitch of excitement by this scene, hastily slit open the envelope, and drew out a folded sheet of foolscap paper. He saw at a glance that there was very little to read. His voice trembled slightly as he began a recital of the contents.
“‘This is the last will of me, Jacob Herapath, of 500, Portman Square, London, in the County of Middlesex. I give, devise, and bequeath everything of which I die possessed, whether in real or personal estate, absolutely to my niece, Margaret Wynne, now resident with me at the above address, and I appoint the said Margaret Wynne the sole executor of this my will. And I revoke all former wills and codicils. Dated this eighteenth day of April, 1912.
“‘Jacob Herapath.’”
Selwood paused there, and a sudden silence fell—to be as suddenly broken by a sharp question from Barthorpe.
“The Witnesses?” he said. “The witnesses!”
Selwood glanced at the further paragraph which he had not thought it necessary to read.
“Oh, yes!” he said. “It’s witnessed all right.” And he went on reading.